by Darci Hannah
“You assume that he is still alive.”
“I assume nothing,” he replied, and for a moment he believed she had caught the slight edge of desperation in his voice. “Be he living or be he dead, I wish to find him,” he concluded and gave a humorless smile.
She sat back, nearly swallowed by the huge chair, and studied him at leisure from the shadows. Then, finally breaking the silence with a grin of pure malice, she said: “Very well, Signor Blythe, then let us dangle our toes in the spirit world.”
He supposed this is what he had come for, the promise of answers that went beyond cold trails and dead ends. But still, nothing in his experience, nothing in all his travels—in all the lands he had fought and bled in—prepared him for what came next.
He watched in silence as Signora Evangelista pulled a pot from the brazier and carefully prepared a tea of pungent herbs and powdered substances, most of which he could not name. The smell of her potion, that of rotting vegetation swirling around wet wool with an underlying stink very similar to camel shit, suffused the air, and he felt he might be sick. But he fought it off, transfixed by a perverse desire to see this old witch fulfill her obligation; after all, her price had not been cheap. The wrinkled lips pressed to a little cup, quavering as the first drops of the vile mix went down. If it tasted at all like it smelled, then she indeed was not only a good actress but incredibly devoted to her craft. She sat very still, and then, closing her black eyes, she tossed the rest back like a thirsty sailor, wiping the dribbles from her chin with the sleeve of her gown. After a theatrical pause, her papery, wrinkled eyelids flew up with a startling suddenness. She looked at him with black orbs distant, and then she picked up the ring and placed it on her finger.
His eyes, unmoving, silently admired her pluck as she waited to summon her spirit guides. As if on cue, her body convulsed with a sudden jerk and her head lolled back dramatically, hitting the wood of the high-backed chair. He raised a brow at the sound. It had to have hurt. Nonetheless, he was perversely transfixed by the performance, knowing in the rational part of his brain that he was the biggest kind of fool. He should have just stayed in the grand parlor and enjoyed the orgy.
The old woman was very still now. A cold wind blew in from the canal, ruffling the light curtains. He felt it on the back of his neck, felt it travel like frozen fingers under his hair and send a wave of icy chills down his spine. It was a warning, an instinctive response, and he knew he should leave at once. But he ignored the impulse—because he was riveted to Signora Evangelista’s bold performance. The old woman remained deathly still as her gown fluttered in the intrusive breeze.
And then the wind came again.
This time there was more force to it, enough to throw the shutters back on their hinges, causing a loud, resounding crack. Turning, he saw that the curtains were protesting violently and jumped from his chair to close the shutters, toppling an expensive vase in the process. But the wind, oddly contained inside the room, did not stop. He watched, awestruck, as a current began circling, building in force, growing until it howled in his ears. Other vases toppled. The fine wall hangings were ripped off their hooks. And he knew, without doubt, that he was in the middle of something unholy. He also saw that the old woman understood it too. Her eyes were wide with horror; her red-painted lips had parted as a guttural scream formed in her throat. His eyes held hers, but no sound came from her lips. He took a step toward her. Her face contorted in a look of unbearable pain. He was about to run to her when the lanterns, all four of them, exploded in a burst of rose-colored glass. Shards shot through the air on the demonic wind, and he found himself pressed to the floor in the swirling darkness, his breath coming heavy, his mind and body awakening to the instinct that had kept him alive when he had walked in hell, or whenever entering the heart of a battle. This was a little of both, but unlike anything he had ever before experienced.
He fought his way back to the chair as the wind kept howling around him, driving razor-sharp glass and broken pottery at his body. He pulled up his hood and, shielding his eyes as best he could with his arm, caught sight of Signora Evangelista. Now cast in monochromatic tones from the scattered embers of the brazier, her entire body was convulsing; her black eyes, wide under the sheer fabric of her veil, were disturbingly blank, and he watched as they rolled back in her head until only the whites could be seen.
This was not an act.
Something had gone frightfully wrong. Perhaps the tea had been poisoned. Perhaps a storm like none this city had ever known had blown in, causing the strange wind; for he would cling to any possibility rather than yield to the suspicion that an unseen force had taken hold of the old woman, causing her frail bones to rattle the chair that was at least twice her size. And then, suddenly, from deep within the High Priestess of Cyprus came a voice that only the likes of the devil could own.
He could hear someone pounding on the door. It was the young woman, the goddess he had told not to wait. Damn her, but she had waited, and her frantic cry touched him as she pleaded to be let in. But he would not bring her into this.
The demon voice pulled him back.
The old woman was now speaking in a language he did not know, had never heard, and he had heard many. It was harsh and guttural, as if the earth had ripped open and was vomiting brimstone. Yet there was a cadence to it, an allure to its dark madness that encircled him, and visions of the naked bodies below, writhing, coupling in unending rapture, held him to the spot as the gnarled hands of the old woman came for him. He saw that her eyes were still white; her painted mouth was uttering words, but her legs weren’t moving. By God, she was floating on the wind! He then saw the blue pall of death on her face and knew she was gone. His blood froze in his veins; he couldn’t move if he wanted to.
The hands of the dead body were coming closer. His eye caught the glint of the ring he had given her—the ring of his father. He reached for it, his fingers nearly touching those of the possessed priestess, and he cared not what happened. He wanted his ring back. Yet before he could grab it—before he could touch her—a flash of light tore through the room, stilling the raging wind, silencing the demonic babble, and blinding him completely. The shock of it thrust him backward, sending him tripping over the Kurdistan rug and cracking his head on the leg of a chair. He hit the floor, landing on the wreckage of broken glass and pottery, but he felt nothing. Shielding his eyes from the bright light, he heard the unmistakable voice of his mother. “Julius, my poor, dear child, it is time to stop running.”
He sat up, straining to see her face, but the light was too strong. Somewhere, he knew, the goddess was still pounding on the door. But his heart was beating too loudly, and his face, inexplicably, felt damp. “Mother?” he uttered, seized with fear, hope, disbelief. His arm came over his eyes.
“Julius, go home.”
“I can’t go home!” he cried, and caught the unnerving thread of fear that lined his every word. “I can’t,” he reiterated with persuasive finality. “Not until I find him.”
“My dear, misguided soul,” replied the voice of serenity. “You have courted demons enough; it is time, my son, to face your own. Leave your father be. What you seek from him will be delivered by the messenger you have already chosen.”
“What?” he gasped. He felt emotionally eviscerated and feared he was mad, the madness touching him as it had touched his father. His eyes burned at the thought, and his cheeks stung. He brought his fingers to his face and saw blood mingled with tears. By God, was he actually crying?
And then he smelled her.
The horrible stink of the room, the rotting vegetation and camel shit, had gone, and in its place came the pure and heavenly scent of roses and warm sunlight. It had been years ago, he had been only five, but he would never forget her scent. Thoughts of home came flooding back, entangled with memories both good and painful, and a vision of a marble angel above an old archway. An angel. A messenger. A warrior of God. The one who would hold the key to his absolution. “Gabriel!”
he gasped, finally understanding.
She did not speak again, but he could feel her answer. A burst of love, pure and blinding, radiated through him. He wanted to bathe in it; he wanted it to last forever. But it did not last. It was ebbing away, leaving with one clear message: “Go home to Blythe Hall.” And then she was gone, and the light with her. The room turned dark once again.
He awoke next to the body of a dead woman and felt he must vomit. The stink was back in the room, now accompanied by the smell of death. He heard the frantic pounding of fists. He sat up, saw the ring on the gnarled old hand, and took it. He put it on his own finger and walked to the door, bleeding, bruised, and utterly shaken. The goddess was there, waiting as he knew she would be, only her face was now pinched with fear.
“Signora Evangelista …,” he began, but could say no more. Her large, imploring eyes, pooling with tears, failed to move him, and he left her standing there, with a hand over her quivering mouth. He continued quickly down the dim corridor, descended the many flights of stairs, walked past the private rooms, past the piano nobile where the bodies now lay naked and spent, and down yet more stairs until he passed through the crumbling arcade where a guard bade him good night.
“Get up,” he told the gondolier, who was sleeping peacefully in the bottom of the boat. The old man sprang awake, confused at first, until he took a good look at his passenger’s face.
“Sweet merciful Christ,” he uttered and broke into a wide, toothless grin. “What the hell happened to you?”
“I lingered,” Julius Blythe replied, and sat down on the cushioned seat. It was then that he noticed he was shaking. The gondolier noticed it too and, through a look of rapt admiration, handed him a handkerchief to daub the blood streaming down his face.
“You lingered!” he laughed as he cast off, the bow of the sleek boat heading for the dark waters of the canal. “Indeed you lingered, my young friend, but I would say you got your money’s worth.”
“I got more than my money’s worth,” he answered softly, unable to return the smile. The old man laughed heartily at this, but Julius could not join him. Instead he pulled up his hood and wrapped himself tightly in the folds of his cloak, hoping that would stop the shaking.
He did not stop shaking.
Gabriel. The name came to him as they traveled the lonely waterway in the small hours before dawn. Gabriel, he had uttered, remembering the white light that had pulled the name from the jaded recesses of his mind. Unfortunately, he knew exactly what it meant. “Well then,” he said to himself while looking heavenward, where one lonely star had broken through the mist. “If that’s how it’s going to be played, then by all means, let the game begin.”
Chapter 2
BLYTHE HALL
Scottish Borders,
Late April 1492
WITH MY OWN THOUGHTS HELD CLOSE AND MY ermine-lined cape pulled closer still, I rode in silence, absorbing every detail of the undulating land of Roxburghshire. I let my eyes wander over windswept, heather-covered hills and down the sides of wooded valleys where the intrepid Tweed, appearing a mere whimsical stroke of an artist’s brush, moved like a peaty-brown viper weaving its way east and to the sea. It was wild, desolate country inhabited by a hearty, often lawless breed of people, yet no one could deny its beauty or its allure, least of all me.
But one doesn’t return home, especially to a place like Blythe Hall, without feeling some form of unease. I had been thirteen the last time I laid eyes on the brooding Borders fortress that was my ancestral home, and five years had filled the space in between, most of which was spent in the convent at Haddington and then serving King James, the fourth of that name, and his remarkable aunt, the spinster Princess Margaret Stewart. Because James came to his throne a minor, being only fifteen at the time, and was yet a young man near my own age, he was still a bachelor. The nobles, of course, were scouring the royalty of Europe to remedy this, yet try as they might, there appeared to be a real shortage of suitable princesses available for their young king. Lucky James. I, unfortunately, was not so lucky. In fact, Scotland, I learned, was bursting at the seams with men, young and old, noble or otherwise, all very willing to marry a young woman of noble birth, especially one who was the sole heir to a large and propitiously placed Border estate. It was a daunting situation for any young woman, and for me it was especially so because the king was not only my dear friend but my legal guardian. And it was his duty to make it my duty to marry, and marry wisely.
I’ll be the first to admit that I was not overly wise where men were concerned. I blame this on my father and brother, both frightfully damaged specimens of their sex, who engendered my love and my heart and then abandoned me. On the opposite end of this scale was the king, a rare fine example of all that a man should be—brave, wise, kind, and chivalrous, and utterly untouchable. Aside from kindly servants, dear friends, and exhausting relatives, I found the whole swirl of savvy courtiers befuddling. And so, to preserve my own sanity, I decided it was time I heed the sagely advice of Princess Margaret and take control of my own destiny. And my destiny was to be the Lady of Blythe Hall. In this I had no regrets.
What I did regret, if I were to be totally honest with myself, was my decision to wear silk hose and not good old stout wool ones better suited to long hours on horseback and the blustery winds of the Borders. I might also have regretted leaving court as hastily as I had, jumping at the king’s offer to accept his escort and not waiting for my own to arrive. And certainly, if I had been one to dwell on past foolishness, I would have regretted eating the cheerfully offered marag dubh, as Tam, my groom called it. The dear lad said his granny had made the blood pudding especially for me, and took the liberty of fortifying the black sausage with a special mix of herbs and whatnot to ward off evil. Tam’s use of the word whatnot was suspect, but since I had no wish to encounter evil on my journey home, I took a polite nibble; Tam’s granny, although well meaning, was not known for her cooking. True to her reputation, the blood pudding was cold and slimy, tasteless but for the strange effervescence of river moss, and uniquely granular. Tam, however, being a superstitious lad, insisted I eat the whole thing, and now the kind yet unpalatable offering sat in my stomach, churning away like sour milk on ill-smelted lead. Although I had eaten the blood pudding yesterday morning and hadn’t suffered much at the time, I was certain my queasiness was a latent reaction to this and in no way a result of any regrets on my part for acting so rashly.
“God’s knuckles!” The expletive hit my ears with the same startling unease as the memory of the blood pudding. “Pray don’t tell me that’s where we’re going?”
I looked at the source of the outcry, my dear friend Marion Boyd, niece of the late Earl of Arran, youngest child of Arran’s brother, Sir Archibald Boyd of Nariston, and favorite niece of the once powerful Sir Archibald Douglas, fifth Earl of Angus, or Bell-the-Cat as he was affectionately known. Having spent a good deal of time at court, and having been around powerful men her whole life, Marion was lively, beautiful, and wildly self-indulgent, and although her behavior was scandalous at times, she was my dearest friend. At first I had no idea what she was complaining about, only that she was complaining about something again. Yesterday it had been the overwhelming amount of mud we slogged through, then the hardness of her saddle, and this morning the good brothers of the Cross Kirk Friary in Peebles were awarded for their hospitality an earful about their weak ale and burnt oatcakes. Noting that her bejeweled glove was still quivering aloft, and that her finger was waggling accusingly at some indiscernible point in the distance, I followed it.
My heart stilled.
In the distance, in a wooded glen not far from where the Tweed parted ways with the Teviot, the top of a great stone tower could be seen poking above budding trees and a tangle of tenacious shrubbery. Although the very top of the noble gray tower was all that was visible from here, it didn’t take a practiced eye to see that we were no longer in the fertile heart of our country, nor was this the center of courtly civ
ility. We were in the grip of a land battered and scarred for centuries by hostile, warring forces, and the great castle before us was but another vigilant sentinel guarding the gate to Scotland. Only it wasn’t just another castle, it was Blythe Hall.
“Umm,” I began cautiously, noting the puzzled look on Marion’s face and not wishing to cause her further regret, for she had been rather eager to accompany me on my journey home. “Yes, I … believe that it is.”
She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “You believe that it is, or it is?”
“What if I said it is? Would you hate me very much?”
“Dear heavens above, Isabeau, nobody could ever hate you, although I’d have perfectly good reason if I did. You’ve dragged me through mud, bog, and frightful hills, and fed me nothing but rubbish for the last two days, and it’s now threatening rain.” I was awarded her most dazzling and sarcastic smile. “Forgive me if I assumed your home would have been a little more civilized and imaginative than that bleak pile of stones over there. It does have a roof, doesn’t it?”
“Of course it does,” I replied, hoping I was correct, for it had been a long while since I’d been home. “And it’s not bleak and unimaginative. You do understand where we are, don’t you?” This last question I asked a bit loudly, so I’d be heard above the building wind and the jangling of horse harnesses. Yet I could see that Sir Matthew Beaton, Master of the King’s Guard, who just happened to be riding on Marion’s other side, heard me as well, for his lips, surrounded by a neatly trimmed beard, pulled into a smile. It was this small gesture that urged me to continue. “They don’t call these the Borders, Marion, because they’re bordering on the same luxuries as Stirling Castle, or Linlithgow, or even Edinburgh. This is not a stroll down the High Street where one straps on her pattens and goes a-calling, and where everyone you meet invites you in for mulled wine, almond cakes, and the latest gossip. But it does have its own particular kind of charm.”